ever enjoys himself, it is only along with the priests, drinking holy water, and eating blessed bread. Oh, he is almost a saint in the strictness of his life; but, then, his heart is as hard as iron, and as stern and rigid towards others as he is severe towards himself. Why, poor Louise, daughter to our sick lodger, has been his only servant for the last eighteen months. And what a good girl she is! Gentle as a lamb in temper and disposition, but willing as a horse to work; and he only gives this poor thing, who slaves herself to death for him, eighteen francs a month—not a farthing more, I give you my word; and out of this she only keeps back six francs for her own maintenance, and hands over the other twelve to her starving family; that has been all their dependence for some time past; but when seven persons have to live upon it, it does not go far."
"But what does the father earn—I mean, provided he is industrious?"
"Industrious! God bless you, he has always overworked himself; he is the soberest, steadiest creature alive; and I verily believe that if he had the promise of obtaining any favour he liked to ask of Heaven, it would be that the day might be made doubly as long as it now is, that he might earn bread enough to stop the cries of his starving brats."
"Then the father cannot earn enough if he were to try ever so hard, it seems?"
"Why, the poor man was ill abed for three months, and that threw them all behind; his wife's health was quite ruined by the fatigue of nursing him and the severe want she experienced of common necessaries for herself and family. She now lies in a dying state; they have had nothing for all that period besides Louise's wages and what they could obtain from Mother Burette upon the few wretched articles they could dispose of. True, the master for whom Morel had worked advanced them a trifle, out of respect for a man he had always found punctual and honest when he could work. But, la! Eight people only to be found in bread, that is what I say—just imagine how hard it must be to keep life and soul together upon such small means; and if you could only see the hole they are all huddled together in—But do not let us talk any more about that, monsieur, for our dinner is ready, and the very thought of their wretched garret turns my stomach. However, happily, M. Bras Rouge is going to clear the house of them—when I say happily, I don't mean it ill-naturedly in the least; but since these poor Morels have fallen into such misery, and it is quite out of our power to help them, why let them go and be miserable elsewhere; it will be a heartache the less for us all."
"But, if they are turned out from here, where will they go to?"
"Truly, I don't know."
"And how much can this poor workman earn daily when in health, and without any calls upon his time or attention?"
"Why, if he had not to attend to his old mother, nurse his sick wife, and look after the five children, he could earn his three or four francs a day, because he works like a downright slave; but now that at least three-quarters of his time are taken up with the family, he can hardly manage to earn forty sous."
"That is little, indeed—poor creatures!"
"Yes, it is easy to say poor creatures, but there are so many equally poor creatures, that, as we can do nothing for them, it is no use to worry ourselves about it—is it, Alfred? And, talking of consoling ourselves, there stands the cassia, and we have never thought of tasting it."
"To tell you the truth, Madame Pipelet, after what I have just heard I have no inclination to partake of it. You and M. Pipelet must drink my health in it when I am gone."
"You are extremely kind, sir," said the porter; "but will you not like to see the rooms up-stairs?"
"I shall be glad to do so, if perfectly convenient; and, if they suit, I will engage them at once and leave a deposit."
The porter, followed by Rodolph, emerged from the gloomy lodge, and proceeded up-stairs.
[10] These boxes were the exclusive manufacture of the criminals confined either in the galleys or prisons, and who spent nearly all their spare hours in making them.
CHAPTER XXIV.
THE FOUR STORIES.
The damp, dark staircase looked still more gloomy through the fog of a November day. The entrance to each separate set of apartments in this house bore its own peculiar and distinctive character to the observant eye. Thus, the door conducting to those of the commandant bore evidences of having been recently painted in close imitation of ebony, being further set off with a brass knob rubbed up to a most dazzling brightness, while a gay-coloured bell-rope, finished by an enormous tassel of scarlet silk, contrasted strongly with the mean and shabby wall against which it hung.
The door of the flight above, where dwelt the female money-lender and dealer in divination, was singularly characterised by the appearance of that mystical symbol of deep wisdom and oracular knowledge, an owl, which, stuffed to resemble life as closely as the artist could contrive it, was nailed on a small bracket just above the doorway; while a sort of small wicket, latticed with wire-work, enabled all visitors to be duly scrutinised ere they were admitted.
The dwelling of the Italian charlatan, who was said to pursue such fearful avocations, had, likewise, its whimsical mode of designating the pursuits of its occupant, whose name, traced in large letters formed of horses' teeth upon a square black board, was nailed to the entrance-door; while, instead of adopting the classical agency of a deer's foot or a hare's pad for the handle of his bell, there hung dangling from the cord the hand and arm of a dried ape—the withered limb, the shrivelled hand, with its five fingers, each so distinctly preserved, and the articulation of every joint so clearly defined, the tiny tips bearing the nails long and taper as those of a human creature, presented a close and hideous resemblance to the hand and arm of a child.
As Rodolph passed before a door so singularly indicative of all his worst suspicions, he fancied he could detect the sound of smothered sobs from within. Then rose up a cry so full of agony, of convulsive, irrepressible misery—a cry as if wrung from a breaking heart or the last wail of expiring nature, that the whole house seemed to reëcho it. Rodolph started; then, by a movement more rapid than thought itself, he rushed to the door and violently pulled the bell.
"What is the matter, sir?" inquired the astonished porter.
"That cry!" said Rodolph; "did you not hear it?"
"Yes, yes, I heard it; I dare say it is some person whose teeth M. Bradamanti is taking out; perhaps he may be taking out several—and it is painful!"
This explanation, though a probable one, did not satisfy Rodolph as to the horrid scream which still resounded in his ears. Though he had rung the bell with considerable violence, no person had as yet replied to his summons; he could distinctly hear the shutting of several doors, and then, behind a small oval glass let in beside the door, and on which Rodolph had mechanically kept his eyes fixed, he saw the haggard, cadaverous countenance of a human being; a mass of reddish hair strongly mixed with gray, and a long beard of the same hue, completed the hideous ensemble; the face was seen but for an instant, and vanished as quickly as though it had been a mere creation of fancy, leaving Rodolph in a state of perturbation impossible to describe.
Short as had been the period of this apparition's visit, he had yet in those brief instants recalled features precisely similar and for ever engraved on his memory—the eyes shining with the colour and brilliancy of the aqua marina beneath their bushy sandy eyebrows, the livid complexion,
